


Taction

by Kalimyre



Category: Cabin Pressure
Genre: Arthur gives the best hugs, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, First Time, Hugs, M/M, Touch-Starved, Touching
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-01
Updated: 2012-09-10
Packaged: 2017-11-13 08:07:33
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 16,340
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/501312
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kalimyre/pseuds/Kalimyre
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Arthur discovers that Martin doesn't like being touched, because he's not used to it.  He decides to help by touching Martin a little at a time until he's comfortable with it.  And then a little more.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Austin

Arthur notices for the first time in Austin. 

There’s been a bomb scare at the airport and all the flights are grounded while a swarm of TSA agents converges on the terminal.  Mum is scowling because the delay means they might have to find a hotel for the passengers.  Douglas is grouchy because he won’t get to pass his fourteen cases of Nutella to his friend in customs; not with the increased scrutiny on all their baggage.

The passengers seem divided on the matter; most of them are tired of hanging about the airport and have exhausted the limited entertainment offered by shops and moving walkways.  One of them, who is eleven and became instant friends with Arthur on the flight over, thinks it is an adventure and especially loves the working dogs sniffing everything.  Arthur agrees with her heartily.

The only person who doesn’t seem to mind much one way or the other is Martin.  He draws himself into a small space in the crowded waiting area, at the end of one of the long rows of seats.  He keeps his overnight bag beside him like a barricade.  He reads a book, sips coffee, and waits.

Eventually there is a rustle of movement, a squawked overhead announcement, and lines form at the security screening area.  Mum chivvies the passengers into a line, tells them what gate to head for, and then joins the rest of MJN in the crew line.  Her mood brightens now that it looks like they’ll get to leave today, and even Douglas perks up a bit when he notices the crew line is far shorter than the ones for passengers.

Martin, on the other hand, stares at the screening process ahead of them and hunches his shoulders.  “This is ridiculous,” he says.  “We don’t need pat-downs.  We’re flight crew!  We shouldn’t have to go through this process.”

“Martin, do shut up,” Mum says impatiently. 

“I’m just saying—”

“Don’t,” Douglas says, cutting him off.  “Think about this.  Look at the TSA agents.  Do they look _happy_ to you?”

Martin frowns and says nothing.  Arthur looks, curious.  “Wow, they really don’t,” he says.  “They’re all kind of squinchy around the eyes.”

“Yes,” Douglas says.  “Those are the faces of people working overtime, processing a lot of grumpy and impatient passengers.  Those are people who are still concerned about the bomb scare.  They don’t like this any more than you do, and will require very little reason to hold us all here for hours.”

“But,” Martin begins.

“No,” Mum says, rounding on him.  “If you cause another delay like the one in Boston…”

“That was _one_ time,” Martin protests.  “And it was ridiculous!”

“Ridiculous or not, it kept us grounded all morning,” Douglas replies.  “I, for one, do not intend to spend a single minute longer in this airport than I absolutely have to.  So keep quiet, do as you’re told, and don’t cause a fuss.”

Martin subsides, folding his arms over his chest with a defeated sigh.  The line shuffles forward.

“Don’t worry, Skip,” Arthur says.  “Look, I think our line is going pretty fast.”

“I’m not worried,” Martin says.  “I just… don’t think this is necessary.  It’s beneath my dignity as a captain.  Standing there in the middle of an airport while some random stranger puts his hands…”  His jaw tightens and a line appears between his eyebrows.  “Never mind.  Let’s just get through this.”

Their line does indeed move at a decent pace.  Flight crew, well familiar with airport screening, know how to behave and what not to carry in their hand luggage.  Soon they are at the head of the line.  Mum goes through first, bearing the scan and pat-down in stoic silence.  Douglas gives the agents a polite smile, follows instructions, and is swiftly passed to the other side. 

Arthur is next, and he giggles a bit as the agent passes his hands over his stomach.  The agent raises a questioning eyebrow.  “Tickles,” Arthur explains.  This actually gets him a tired smile, and he is ushered to the secure area once his scan is complete.  He turns to watch Martin come through.

Martin approaches with a grim stride.  He stares straight ahead, back taut and upright, jaw set in a hard line.  He leans away from the hands as much as possible.  His face is blank but he fairly quivers with tension; the security agents give him an even more thorough pat-down because of it.  One stands in front of him and runs his hands lightly over his chest, into the dip of his waist, and over his thighs.  Another is behind and touches his shoulders, the small of his back, and down to his knees.  He tugs at Martin’s trouser legs and peers at his ankles.  Martin’s lips press into a thin line; he appears to be holding his breath.

When he finally gets through, he picks up his bag from the rack and walks toward the gate.  He doesn’t look at any of them.  Mum and Douglas are already moving, impatient to get to the plane and prepare for the flight, but Arthur trails a bit, watching Martin. 

“Skip?”

“What.”  Martin’s voice is flat and unhappy.

“Are you all right?”

“Fine.”

“It’s just, you don’t look fine,” Arthur says. 

“Well, I am,” Martin replies.  He walks a little faster.

Arthur casts a sidelong look at him as they hurry through the airport.  He reaches out, tentative, and touches his shoulder.  Martin jerks away, giving him a startled glance.  “Don’t,” he says.

“Sorry,” Arthur says.  “Are you sure you’re all right?”

“Yes.  Fine.  Yes.”  Martin weaves around a clump of passengers, drawing his arms in close to his body to avoid brushing against them.  Arthur follows, frowning.

Martin is probably just grumpy about the delay, he reasons.  And the extra security screening.  Nobody seems to like that.  He’ll be better once they’re in the air.  Flying always cheers him up.  Yes, Arthur decides, he’ll be okay.

But he can’t quite forget the tight, miserable look on Martin’s face.


	2. Hands

The second time, they’re flying to Recife.  They’ve only got one passenger this time, a lady in her fifties who is celebrating her divorce.  Mum likes her immediately, although she doesn’t join them on the flight.  Brazil, she says, is entirely too hot. 

Her name is Ms. Hereford and she tells Arthur he reminds her of a retriever puppy.  He thinks this is brilliant; everyone likes puppies.

“Arthur,” Ms. Hereford calls, waving at him.  “Yoo-hoo!  Would you come here a minute, dear?”

“Yes, hello,” he says, coming up the aisle.  “How can myself be of service to yourself today?”

She giggles.  “Would you bring me another cranberry vodka?”

“Right away,” he says.  He mixes it in the galley, carefully measuring the extra shot of vodka.  He likes Ms. Hereford.  She told him exactly how to make the drink, and then smiled at him and called him clever when he followed instructions.  She’s kind of like Mr. Birling, in that she’s very rich and likes to drink a lot, but much nicer. 

“Here you are,” he says, bringing it back to her on a tray.  She takes it, has a generous swallow, and smacks her lips.

“Lovely,” she says.  “Well done, they get better every time.  Sit with me for a bit, dear.”

“Oh, I’m not really supposed to,” he replies.

“What else are you going to do?”

“Well, mostly I sit in the galley,” Arthur says.  “Or sometimes I bring things to the pilots.  Or things for the other passengers.”

“Do the pilots need something right now?”

“No, I don’t think so,” Arthur says. 

“And are there any other passengers?”

“Well… no.”

“Right, then,” she says.  “So you can sit in the boring old galley, or you can sit with me.  I know which one I’d prefer.”

“Okay,” Arthur says, and settles into the seat beside her.  She beams and ruffles his hair. 

“Do you know who you remind me of?” she asks.

“A retriever puppy,” he replies.  “You already told me.”

She laughs, tilting her head back.  “Oh right, yes.  Well, that too, but also, you remind me of my grandson Jonathan.  He’s six years old, and an absolute darling.  Would you like to see some pictures?”

“Sure,” Arthur says.  He leans over (she’s really rather tiny, short and plump with pale, delicate hands) and looks at a packet of photos she pulls out of her purse.  Jonathan has fine blond hair and laughing eyes and a broad grin.  There are quite a lot of pictures of him settled in Ms. Hereford’s lap, holding some shiny toy or another.

“I spoil him terribly,” she confides.  “My first grandchild, I can spoil him all I want, can’t I?”

“Of course,” Arthur says.  “That’s the law.”

She chuckles and squeezes his arm.  “Oh, you are a sweetheart.  Here, this is at the London Zoo, for his birthday party.  And this one is when we went to Maastricht on summer holiday.  Here we are at San Sebastian on the beach.  Look at him in that little sun hat, isn’t that adorable?”

They go through the whole album; by the end, Ms. Hereford is leaning sleepily on his shoulder.  She rouses when the aeroplane bumps.  “Oh my,” she says.  “Perhaps I’ll have a little nap.”

“Righto,” Arthur says.  “I’ll bring you a blanket, shall I?”

“Thank you,” she replies.  “You’re such a good boy.” 

He goes to bring her a blanket, but then Martin comes over the cabin address system.  “Hello, this is your captain speaking, just to let you know we’re beginning our final approach into Recife.  We’ll be landing at Guararapes Airport, where the local time is just after four in the afternoon.  Weather is sunny, with the temperature at a balmy twenty-seven degrees.  Cabin crew, twenty minutes to landing.”

The seatbelt light blinks on with a _bing_ and Arthur puts the blanket away.  “We’re landing,” he tells Ms. Hereford.  “At this time please do fasten your seatbelt, return your seat to its full upright and locked position, and please make sure all your luggage and duty free are safely stowed away.”

“Listen to you,” she says.  “So official.”  Her words are slurring together quite a bit but her eyes are still bright.

“Mum taught me how to say it,” Arthur admits.

“Good for her.”  Ms. Hereford yawns and clicks her seatbelt.  “Guess I’ll save that nap for the hotel.  Once we land, would you bring the pilots round?  I’d like to thank them, and I have some tips for all of you.”

“Brilliant!” Arthur says.  “I mean, yes, certainly, it will be my pleasure to assist you in any way that I can.”

He goes into the galley to buckle into his own seat and waits for the landing.  They touch down smoothly; Arthur smiles.  Douglas took the takeoff so it must be Martin landing and he’s really getting much better at them.  He waits until they’ve taxied to a stop and then pops his head into the flight deck.

“Hello, chaps!  Brilliant landing, Martin.”

Martin turns and grins at him.  “It was rather good, wasn’t it?”

“Yes,” Douglas says.  “Landing with zero wind on a smooth runway in broad daylight.  Sir’s skills grow more amazing with each passing day.”

Martin ignores him.  “Hadn’t you better see to our passenger?”

“That’s why I’m here,” Arthur says.  “She wants to see both of you.  She says she’s going to thank you, and there are tips.”

Douglas brightens and scrubs his hands together.  “Ah, another satisfied customer.  Let’s not keep her waiting.”

The three of them walk back into the cabin.  Ms. Hereford is standing in the aisle, trying to reach the overhead compartment.  “Let me get that for you,” Arthur says, darting ahead.  He pulls her bags out and sets them on a couple empty seats.

“Oh, thank you,” she says.  “Goodness, you’re tall.  Now, are these the pilots?”

“Yes, hello,” Douglas says smoothly.  “I’m the first officer, Douglas Richardson, and this is our captain, Martin Crieff.”

“Lovely,” she says.  “Thank you both for a very nice flight.  I have some little gifts for you to enjoy while we’re here in Brazil.”  She digs in her purse (Arthur has already decided it is bottomless, like the one Mary Poppins has) and comes up with a money clip well laden with pound notes.  She hands each of the pilots a thousand, and Arthur two thousand.

“Wow!” Arthur says.  “Thank you!”

“Thank _you_ for being such a dear and keeping me company,” she replies. 

“Very generous of you,” Douglas says.  “We do appreciate it, and thank you for flying with MJN Air.”

Martin nods and adds, “Yes, thank you very much.”  He looks a bit stunned.

She smiles.  She’s still a bit wobbly on her feet, and bumps into Arthur as she reaches for her bags.  “Would you be so kind as to help me with these?”

“Of course,” Arthur says.  He gets one, and Martin grabs the other.  Douglas takes Ms. Hereford’s arm and guides her off the plane.

At the gate, they get her a luggage cart and a skycap to help her.  “Aren’t you all lovely gentlemen,” she says.  “I’ll see you in two weeks for the return trip?”

“Yes, we’ll be back to pick you up,” Martin says.  “Enjoy your holiday.”

“Oh, I plan to, thank you.”  She stands on her tiptoes and wraps Arthur in a hug, squeezing with surprising strength for someone so tiny.  He beams and hugs her back.  She’s shaped a bit like Mum and smells of cranberries and sugar biscuits.

Next, she turns and hugs Douglas.  She’s tipsy enough to giggle when he places a courtly kiss on the back of her hand.  Finally, she heads for Martin.  He takes an automatic step back, then freezes like a deer in headlights.  His arms remain stiff at his sides when she hugs him and his eyes go wide.  She pats his back, then lets him go.  He offers a forced, polite smile.

“Well,” Martin says.  “Better go see to the post landing checks.  Thanks again.”  He darts away, shoulders hunched as he hurries back to the plane.

Ms. Hereford bustles off with the skycap pushing her luggage cart, and Douglas and Arthur exchange a glance.  “Right,” Douglas says.  “You go help Martin lock Gertie up.  I’m going to get hold of some _acarajé_ and see about our hotel.”

“Righto,” Arthur says.  He finds Martin on the flight deck, frowning at the gauges.  He hesitates; something about this reminds him of Austin.  “Skip?  Everything all right?”

“Yes, fine,” Martin says.  “Just waiting on a hangar assignment and then we’ll be able to go.”

“Oh, okay.”  Arthur settles into the jump seat.  He considers the slumped line of Martin’s shoulders and the furrow between his eyebrows.  “Ms. Hereford was nice, wasn’t she?”

“Yes.  Very generous.”

“And friendly,” Arthur continues.  “She showed me pictures of her grandson.  She seems like a grandma, doesn’t she?  She’s kind of how I picture Mrs. Claus.”

“Hm.”

Arthur leans forward.  “Didn’t you like her?”

“I liked her fine,” Martin replies.  “As passengers go, she’s clearly one of the better ones.”

“So why didn’t you want her to hug you?”

Martin whips around to look at him.  “What are you talking about?”

“When she went to hug you, you looked a bit like a bunny rabbit that is about to be eaten by a really big snake.”

_“What?”_

“I saw it on a documentary once,” Arthur explains.  “The snake kind of hypnotizes the bunny, right, and the bunny just sits there and looks scared and helpless but it can’t move and then it gets eaten.  But Ms. Hereford wasn’t going to eat you so I don’t understand.”

“I just…”  Martin scowls and crosses his arms over his chest.  “I don’t like it, that’s all.”

“What, hugs?”

“Right.”

Arthur blinks at him.  “But hugs are brilliant.  Everyone likes hugs.”

“Well, I don’t.” 

“Oh.”  Arthur thinks about this.  “Do you just not like people touching you?”

Martin looks startled.  “What?  No, I… why do you ask?”

“I noticed it before, when we were in Austin and we went through security.  I thought you just didn’t like it that one time.  Because of the thing you said about being a captain and dignity and all that.  It’s all the time though, isn’t it?”

Martin spreads his hands, exasperated.  “I expect a reasonable amount of personal space.  That’s not unusual.  There’s nothing wrong with expecting total strangers to keep their hands off me.”

“What about people who aren’t strangers?”

“What do you mean?”

“Like me,” Arthur says.  He puts a hand on Martin’s shoulder and squeezes gently.  Martin goes tense.  He remains still for a moment, then shrugs the hand off.

“Stop that,” Martin says.

“Why?  I’m not a stranger.” 

“It’s… it’s weird,” Martin says.  “I’m not used to it.  It feels strange.”

Arthur tilts his head to one side.  “Why aren’t you used to it?”

“I’m just not.”

“But why?”

“Arthur!”  Martin runs a hand through his hair and sighs.  “Drop it, please.”

Arthur chews thoughtfully on his bottom lip.  “Maybe I could help.”

“How?”

“I could help you get used to it.”

Martin closes his eyes and squeezes the bridge of his nose between two fingers.  “Look, I appreciate that you want to help, but really…”

“No, listen,” Arthur says.  “This is a brilliant idea!  I’ll just touch you a little bit at a time until you get more used to it.  And then you won’t have to look all miserable when we go through security or somebody hugs you.  Wouldn’t that be better?”

There is a pause while Martin stares down at his feet.  Eventually, he raises his eyes to Arthur; he looks somewhere between hopeful and uncertain.  “Just a little bit?  And not where anyone could see.”

“Okay,” Arthur agrees.  “Here, I’ll show you.”  He takes Martin’s hand and holds it between both of his. 

“Now?  Wait, what are you doing?” Martin asks.

“Holding your hand,” Arthur says.  “That’s all.  Look, I’m not doing anything else.  This is easy, isn’t it?”

“I… guess so,” Martin says.  He looks at their joined hands.  He twists his wrist, turning his hand palm up.  Arthur lets him.  His grip his loose, cradling Martin’s hand carefully. 

“Now I’m going to move my fingers a little,” Arthur says.  “Not past your wrist, okay?  So you don’t have to worry.”

Martin nods.  He has a strange, unreadable expression on his face and colour high in his cheeks.

Arthur strokes a thumb over Martin’s knuckles.  He rubs each one individually, letting himself feel the small bumps and smooth skin.  Martin has long, slender fingers with a wide reach.  Arthur traces the lines of his palm.  He rubs a little harder, getting the shape of the fine bones within.  The skin is soft and unmarked.

“Thought you’d have rougher hands,” Arthur says.  “From your van jobs, I mean.”

“I wear gloves.”  Martin’s voice is faint, distracted.  “A pilot’s hands are important.  I protect mine.”

“Mmm.”  Arthur starts at the base of his thumb and then traces his hand like he would on a piece of paper.  Up the thumb, over the tip, down into the valley between thumb and forefinger.  He takes his time over the thin skin there.  Then up the forefinger, a press at the tip, and down the other side. 

He spreads the fingers wide and feels each one.  All the way to the pinky, then down the other side of Martin’s palm.  He turns it over and rubs the back.  Every movement is slow and hypnotic; the flight deck is quiet but for the sound of their breathing and the soft whisper of skin.

When the radio crackles, they both jump.  It’s ATC, assigning them a hangar and a path to get there.  Martin replies.  He still sounds hoarse and dazed.  When he clicks the radio off, he turns and regards Arthur for a long moment.  “That was nice,” he says softly.  “Thank you.”

“No problem, Skip,” Arthur replies.  “We can do it again later.  Just a little more each time.”

“Right,” Martin says.  “Yes.”  He still looks uncertain, but Arthur thinks he’s a bit more hopeful now.


	3. Hair

“All right drivers, listen up,” Mum says, sweeping into the office.  Martin looks up from his logbook.  Douglas rustles his newspaper but otherwise doesn’t move. 

“Hi, Mum,” Arthur says.  “There’s tea if you want some.”

She waves him off with a distracted flap of her hand.  “I have good news, so attend.  We are flying a pack of accountants to Mumbai.”

“Do accountants travel in packs?” Douglas asks. 

“Perhaps a flock, since they’re flying,” Martin offers.

“No, birds flock.  Accountants don’t flock,” Douglas replies.  “A swarm, maybe?  A herd?”

“Oh, I know, a school,” Arthur says.  “Like a school of fish!  Except, to be an accountant, you have to go to school.  So it’s a school of accountants.”

There is a pause.  Mum is rubbing her temples in that way she does sometimes.  “You know, I think you may be onto something there,” Douglas says. 

 _“Anyway,”_ Mum says.  “We are flying them to Mumbai and, if they like us, we may pick up regular monthly trips from their company.  So we will all be on our best behavior.  Which, in case you were wondering, does not include speculation on what you call a group of accountants.”

“We’re always on our best behavior,” Douglas says. 

“I mean it,” Mum says.  “This is a very well-paying job.  There will be no passenger derby, no strange cabin addresses, and no travelling lemons.”

“Good,” Martin says.  “When is the flight?”

“Tomorrow,” Mum replies.  “Douglas, I had best not find any mysterious cargo on the flight deck.  Arthur, make sure Gertie is clean and well-stocked.  Martin, get a haircut.”

“What?”  Martin scowls and glances up as if he’ll be able to see his hair.  “What’s wrong with my haircut?”

“I’ll tell you what’s wrong with it,” Mum says.  “You haven’t gotten one in weeks.  You’re starting to look like a ginger Shirley Temple.”

Douglas doesn’t try at all to muffle a snicker.  Martin looks indignant, but wilts under Mum’s glare.  “Fine,” he mumbles.

“Good,” Mum says.  “Well, what are you waiting for?  Shoo!  I will expect you back here at seven tomorrow morning.  And Douglas—by seven I do in fact _mean_ seven.  Not at whatever time it suits you to show up.”

“But of course,” Douglas replies.  He saunters off, newspaper tucked under one arm.  Martin heads the other direction.  Arthur looks at them both and then follows Martin.

He catches Martin by his van, frowning and eyeing his reflection in the side mirror.  “Hi, Skip,” he says.

“Hello,” Martin replies, distracted. “I don’t look anything like Shirley Temple.  That’s ridiculous.”

“Well,” Arthur says.  “You do, a bit.  I mean, you’re not a little girl, and your hair is ginger, not blond, but it is pretty curly.  And kind of… fluffy.”

Martin pushes his hat down firmly on his head.  A fringe of curls escapes from beneath the rim.  He sighs.  “Yes, all right.  I’ve put it off long enough.”

“Don’t you like haircuts?”

“Not especially,” Martin says.

“Oh, but they’re brilliant.”  Arthur glances around and takes Martin’s hand.  He rubs the palm idly with both thumbs.  Martin lets him.  It’s only been a week, but he’s gotten accustomed to Arthur touching his hands every chance he gets.

“In what way is a haircut brilliant?” Martin asks.  “You sit there, and someone cuts your hair.  It’s not a magic trick.”

“But it is really nice,” Arthur replies.  “I mean, first you get to lean over that sink they have especially for washing hair.  Someone puts a towel around your neck and then whoosh, warm water on your hair.  Right there in the middle of the shop!  It’s like, usually you wash your hair in the shower, but now you’re getting it done in a shop, in a sink.”

“Yes,” Martin says.  “Fascinating.”

“Then, the lady washes your hair, which is the best part.  It’s like getting a massage for your head.  You just get to lie back and relax.  They use really nice shampoo, too.  The place I go to is always careful not to get any in my eyes.”

“Hm.”  Martin frowns down at their joined hands.

“Then they cut your hair and chat with you.  Someone combs it and makes it all nice and smooth.  Someone else sort of ruffles it up and dries it.  And then you’re done!”

“Right,” Martin says.  “Thank you.  I am familiar with the process.”

Arthur gives him a considering look.  “Ohhhhh,” he says.  “It’s because you don’t like them touching your hair.”

Martin’s lips tighten into a line.  “Yes.  Keep your voice down.”

“That’s okay, Skip.  I can fix it.  We’ll just practice!”

“Practice,” Martin echoes.

“Yeah!  Here, we’ve got all afternoon.  Let’s go back to your flat.”

“Arthur, you are _not_ cutting my hair.”

“No, of course not,” Arthur says.  “I don’t know how.  But I’ll just touch it for a while until you’re used to it, and then the haircut won’t bother you.”

Martin hesitates.  “I appreciate the offer, but it’s really not necessary.  I am capable of enduring a haircut.  I’ve done it many times.”

“Come on,” Arthur says.  “Let me help.  You got used to the hands, didn’t you?”

“Well… yes.”  Martin squeezes a little, lacing their fingers together.  He has a faint half-smile on his face.

“So this will be even better.” 

“I… yes, all right.”

*

They go to Martin’s flat.  Arthur has been there before, but only outside, to pick him up for a flight.  He’s never been in.  It’s not a flat, exactly, so much as a big shared house.  Except that Martin only lives on the top floor.  The place seems deserted in the middle of the day and they slip up the stairs unnoticed.

“Oh,” Arthur says.  “It’s nice.”

“No it isn’t,” Martin mutters.

“I mean it,” Arthur replies.  “It’s like a tree house!  Or a secret clubhouse.”

Martin rolls his eyes, but a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.  “Right, well.  I haven’t got any tea, but I could make some coffee, or, um…”

“No, that’s all right,” Arthur says.  “Come over here.”  He takes Martin by the hand and tugs him to the chairs.  “You sit, and I’ll stand behind you and pretend like I’m cutting your hair.”

“No scissors,” Martin says.

“Righto.” 

Martin sits reluctantly.  His hands grip the sides of the chair.  His back is straight, hair slopping over his collar in unruly tufts.  His shoulders make a bony line, drawn up like he’s trying to bring them around his ears.  Arthur watches them rise and fall with each breath.  He thinks Martin is trying to regulate his breathing, to keep it slow and steady, but it’s not quite working.

“I’m going to draw a line first,” Arthur says.  “With my fingertip.  You’ll feel it starting at your temple, okay?  The line is where I’m going to touch.  I won’t go over the line.”

Martin gives a stiff nod.  Arthur presses the pad of one finger over his right temple and leaves it there for a few seconds, letting him adjust.  Then he draws it just in front of his ear, down to the hinge of his jaw, and along the side of his neck.  He gives himself about an inch of bare skin as a buffer around Martin’s hairline.  He nudges Martin’s head forward with a gentle push and then swipes along the nape of his neck, just over his collar.  Up the other side of his neck, to his jaw, in front of his left ear to his temple, and then across his forehead. 

“There,” Arthur says. “That’s the space.  All right?”

“Yes,” Martin says.  Some of the tension goes out of his shoulders and his breathing slows.

Arthur brings both hands up.  He cradles Martin’s head in one, and uses the other to card through his hair.  He starts just over one ear and goes all the way back to the ends, drawing the curls out and letting them spring back.  Then he starts at the other ear and repeats the movement.  Again and again, steady and predictable, allowing Martin to relax into it.  Martin’s eyes go half lidded and his head grows heavy in Arthur’s palm.

He starts to press a little harder, rubbing with his fingertips.  Martin’s hair is fine and soft, parting easily under his hands.  He strokes down to the scalp and scrubs in little circles, like he’s washing it.  He rocks Martin’s head back and forth then pushes it forward to press his thumbs right at the base of his skull.  He rubs harder there, digging into the tense muscle.  Martin makes a soft sound. 

“Good?” Arthur asks.

“Mmm.” 

“Does it hurt?”

“Little bit,” Martin says.  The words come out like a recording played back at a slightly slower speed.  Deep, lazy, and stretched like taffy. 

“Want me to stop?”

“No.”  Martin leans back and his head bumps against Arthur’s belly.  He pulls it forward with a startled indrawn breath.  “Sorry.”

“It’s fine,” Arthur says.  “That’s a good idea.”  He guides Martin to lean on him.  At first Martin holds himself still and won’t lean against Arthur, but he eventually unbends with more petting.  Arthur uses broad strokes now, smooth with his palm over the top of Martin’s head and down over his ears, tucking his hair behind them.  It really is rather long and he can gather a good handful each time, sifting it between his fingers.

He’s not sure how long it goes on.  Long enough for his knees to get a bit tired, standing in one place.  Long enough for the sunlight coming through the windows to change angles, a square of light creeping across the floor.  The attic is warm and the air is still.  Martin has closed his eyes at some point and his head lolls against Arthur’s chest.

“When I was little, Mum used to do this for me,” Arthur murmurs.  “If I didn’t feel well, or I had a bad day.  Or sometimes if we were just watching telly.  I’d scoot over next to her and cuddle up and she’d muss my hair.  It was one of my favourite things.  I was sad when my dad said I was too big to do that anymore.”

Martin nods sleepily.  The motion rubs his cheek against Arthur’s shirt.  This is outside of the line Arthur drew, but he doesn’t seem to mind.

“Did your mum ever do that for you?”

“No,” Martin says.

“Did anyone?”

Martin is silent.  He grows tense under Arthur’s hands; his hands pluck and twist at the hem of his shirt.

“Why didn’t they?” Arthur asks.

For a long time, he thinks Martin isn’t going to answer.  He keeps petting, and waits.

“I don’t know,” Martin says quietly.  “I guess they didn’t want to.”

“Why not?”

Martin shakes his head.  “I don’t know,” he says again. 

Arthur isn’t sure what to say.  He kind of understands; his dad never wanted to touch him much.  But Mum always did.  Even now, if he catches her in the right mood, he can sit by her on the sofa and she’ll ruffle his hair absently and lean against him.  He tries to imagine what it might have been like if both his parents had been like his dad.

He doesn’t realise he’s hugging Martin’s head tight against his chest until Martin makes a muffled sound and pulls away.

“Sorry,” Arthur says.

“It’s okay.”  Martin smiles at him.  “Thank you.  I think this did help.”

“Can we do it again?”

“Yes,” Martin says.  “I’d like that.”


	4. Back

Arthur has an idea of what accountants look like.  He has a picture in his mind of thin-shouldered, tweedy looking men with glasses and a pencil tucked behind one ear.  He expects them to be quiet and serious and possibly wear bow ties. 

The fourteen passengers that file onto Gertie the next morning do not look like accountants.  If he had to guess, he would’ve said they were hawkers at a carnival; the sort that stand in the midway and call out to passers-by to try their game.  They are loud and boisterous.  There is some good-natured shoving and elbowing for window seats.  They seem to compete over everything: from who can get their bags stowed the fastest to who can order and finish their first drink the quickest.  There is not a bow tie in sight.

They are smartly dressed; eleven men and three women, all in sharp looking suits.  The woman in the window seat on row one has an especially sleek, shark-like air.  She has blond hair cut in a severe bob, hanging straight and even, precisely level with her jaw.  She is thin and angular in her black skirt and matching jacket.  Her heels look impossible and precarious but she glides on them.  She wins the drink competition by dint of grabbing Arthur by the elbow with one slim, manicured hand and refusing to let him go until he hands her a glass.

She doesn’t offer a name, but he immediately dubs her _Ms. Huffington_ in his head.  He’s not sure why.

She is one of the leaders of the group; the other is on the far side of the plane, in row sixteen, also by a window.  He secured the window seat not by moving the fastest, but by glaring at the person who got there first until he moved.  He is as wide as Ms. Huffington is skinny; he overflows his seat and has lifted the arm-rest so he can spread onto the next one over.   

Arthur calls him simply _Mr. Big._ It seems to fit.  He is very careful not to say it out loud.  It is Mr. Big who informs him they are not exactly accountants.  They are, he says, a team of brokers in charge of sales and acquisitions. 

“Oh,” Arthur says.  He offers a polite smile.  “Sounds exciting.”

“It is,” Mr. Big replies.  “And cutthroat.  Every person on this plane would sell his own mother if it landed him an account.  I don’t trust a single one of them any further than I can throw them.”

Arthur blinks and nods.  “Can you throw them very far?”

Mr. Big gives him a level stare.  He has a prodigious nose sprinkled with red where tiny blood vessels show under the skin.  His brow is heavy; two thick, bushy eyebrows like bristle brushes.  His black hair is streaked with grey and brushed straight back from his forehead; his receding hairline gives him a widow’s peak and his face an odd, pointed quality.  As if he is something that can be aimed and shot.  His eyes are cold and assessing.  He snorts.

“Oh,” he says.  “You’re an idiot.  I didn’t realise at first.”

Arthur’s smile falters a bit.  He brings it back.  “I’m sorry,” he says.  “Didn’t mean to annoy you.  Can I bring you anything?”

“I doubt it,” Mr. Big replies. 

Arthur is about to reply (although he isn’t sure what he’s going to say) when the service bell rings further down the aisle.  “Oh, excuse me,” he says, and darts away.  He’s a bit relieved to escape that contemptuous stare.

The man who summoned him is in an aisle seat, which Arthur thinks means he is a bit lower in the pecking order.  He is young, with pale blue eyes and a tailored pinstripe suit.  “What is this?” he asks, lifting his glass.

“A gin and tonic,” Arthur says.

“Oh really,” the man replies.  He raises his voice.  “Do you actually know how to mix a drink?  Can you tell me what goes into a gin and tonic?  Because _this,_ ” he slams the drink down on his tray, slopping most of it over the edges, “is _not_ a gin and tonic.”

The other passengers are staring.  Arthur wonders if that is the point; if making a scene is what Mr. Gin-and-tonic wants. 

Mum comes sweeping up with a smooth, practiced smile.  “Is everything all right?” she asks.

“No,” Mr. Gin-and-tonic snaps.  “This moron screwed up my drink.  I’m not drinking this.”

“Oh, I do apologise,” Mum replies.  “I’ll bring you another one right away.”

“Make sure he doesn’t make it!” the man calls after her.  Arthur follows her into the galley.

“Sorry, Mum,” he says, watching her slap the drink together.

“Never mind,” she says.  “He’s just being stroppy.  Even _you_ can’t mess up a gin and tonic.”

Arthur nods.  “They do like to drink, don’t they?”

Mum gives a wry huff of laughter.  “At half ten in the morning, too.  I’ll be charging for every drop, don’t you worry.”

“Right,” Arthur says.  He watches Mum sail back out; she evades Ms. Huffington’s grasp nimbly, with the ease of long practice.  Ms. Huffington glares after her retreating back and then jams one crimson fingernail against the service button.  Arthur takes a deep breath, puts his smile back on, and goes out.

“Hello,” he says.  “What can I provide for you, madam?”

“Are you going to serve breakfast?” she asks.

“Oh, yes,” he says.  “For your happy convenience, we will be providing two breakfast choices.  Pancakes with fruit, or cinnamon raisin oatmeal.”

She wrinkles her nose.  “I want some toast.”

“I’m sorry madam, but we don’t actually have a toaster on board,” he replies.

“Well, you don’t have a pancake griddle on board either, do you?”

Arthur hesitates.  “No…”

“But you have pancakes.”

“Yes,” Arthur says. 

“So why don’t you have toast?”

The answer is that pancakes can be pre-cooked and microwaved later, while toast doesn’t microwave very well, but Arthur remembers he isn’t supposed to tell them that.  “Um,” he says.  “I, uh…”

“Are you so incompetent that you don’t know how to make toast?” Ms. Huffington inquires.  One sculpted brow lifts.  Despite being seated, she manages to look down her nose at him.

“I know how to make toast,” Arthur answers.

“So make me some.”

“I’ll see what I can do,” he says, and retreats. 

He is no longer allowed to touch the toasted sandwich maker—not after the “cake” in Helsinki—and it wouldn’t work properly for a non-sandwich anyway.  Also they don’t have any bread.  He probably should have thought of that first.  Maybe if he took a bag of pretzels, crunched it up a bit, and then pressed it flat and made it warm in the microwave…

Before he can try this, the bell rings again.  He glances out; Mum is busy with Mr. Big.  They have papers spread out and Mum has that look she gets when she talks about money.  Could be a while. 

The bell-ringer is in row seven.  He has an unreliable sort of face; handsome but shifty.  His eyes are a kind of mud brown colour and he smells of old cigarettes.  He is scowling as Arthur walks up and starts speaking before he can say anything.  “Listen,” he says.  “I need to use my phone.”

“Oh, I’m sorry sir,” Arthur says.  “We do ask that all phones, pagers, and other mobile devices are switched off for the duration of the trip.  Thank you very much for your cooperation.”

“No, listen,” the man repeats.  “I simply cannot be out of touch for eight hours.  That’s absurd.  You must have some communication method on board.”

“Well… there’s the radio…”

“No!”  Mr. Phone rolls his eyes and slaps his hand down on the arm-rest.  “God, this is the shoddiest airline I’ve ever been on.  Are you stupid?  Do you think my business associates can be reached by _radio?_ ”

“I don’t know,” Arthur says.  “Probably not.”  There’s also the sat-con, but Mum said not to let the passengers use that.  If he mentions it, Mr. Phone will probably want to use it, and then he’ll be angry when he can’t.  Arthur keeps his mouth shut.

“Don’t bother,” Mr. Gin-and-tonic says, leaning over.  “You won’t get any help out of that one.  He’s useless.”

“Apparently,” Mr. Phone replies. 

Arthur stands between them in the aisle, not sure whether he should stay.  He edges a step back.  The two passengers exchange a glance.  In the next row, a woman with her hair drawn back in a tight, smooth bun begins to smile.  She gives him an appraising look.  “Have you two just found our in-flight entertainment?” she calls out.

Heads turn.  Arthur is the centre of attention.  He gives them an uncertain smile.

After that, it’s a game.  They run him ragged, each trying to outdo the others with ridiculous demands and shouting when he gets it wrong.  Ms. Huffington leads the way with her insistence on toast, but he’s also asked for fresh strawberries, sausages, chocolate milk, a very specific vintage of wine, caramel cheesecake, and a whole host of other impossible things.  Mum helps a bit but she is mostly embroiled in negotiations with Mr. Big.  Arthur fervently hopes they are not arranging more flights with this group.

It is eight hours from Fitton to Mumbai and by the end of it, Arthur’s feet hurt, his head is throbbing, and his smile feels thin and brittle.  He stands at the door and thanks each of them for flying MJN in a tired, mechanical voice.  They are in good spirits, well pleased by the day’s entertainment.  When the last one is gone, he shuts the door and leans against it.

“Arthur,” Mum says, walking past.  “Clean up the cabin and make sure you get all the rubbish from under the seats.”

“Yes, Mum,” he says.  There’s quite a lot of mess but at least the plane is quiet now.  She helps him, starting from the other end, and they work their way to the middle. 

“Here,” she says, handing him her bin bag.  “Good work today.”

He looks up, startled.  She smoothes his hair back from his forehead.  “Thanks,” he says.  He finds a smile for her.

“I know they were difficult,” Mum says.  “But they paid very well indeed, and may become regular customers.”

“Oh,” Arthur says.  “That’s good.”

“They won’t be so difficult next time,” she promises.  “The novelty will wear off.”

He nods.  He doesn’t want to think about the trip home right now.  It’s dark out, he’s exhausted, and he just wants to go to the hotel and sleep.

*

Mumbai glitters like a jewel outside the hotel windows, but Arthur doesn’t notice.  His room is tiny but private and he flops onto the bed fully dressed.  He spreads his arms, closes his eyes, and lets out a long breath.  Then he curls and pulls a pillow to his chest.  He thinks vaguely about changing into his pyjamas, or at the very least kicking out of his shoes.

He does neither of those things.  He’s almost asleep when someone knocks at his door.  Arthur drags himself up and goes to answer.  Martin stands on the other side, still in his uniform trousers and shirt, one hand raised as if to knock again.

“Skip?”

“Can I come in?”

“Okay,” Arthur says.  He steps aside.  He’s still half asleep and he crawls back into bed, sitting up against the headboard.  He regards Martin curiously.    

“I thought we’d get a bit of practice in,” Martin says.  “If that’s all right.”

It takes a moment for this idea to connect to anything in Arthur’s head.  “Oh,” he says.  He scrubs his knuckles over his eyes like a tired child.  “Yeah, okay.  Come on.”  He pats the space beside him.  Martin approaches and gives him a dubious look.  Arthur pats the duvet again, encouragingly.  “Lie on your side,” he says.  “Head in my lap.  We’ll start with what you already know.”

Martin looks happier with clear instructions and he positions himself on the bed.  He curls on his side, one cheek on Arthur’s thigh.  He flutters his hands around a little until Arthur catches them.  He rests one on his knee, and the other tucks beneath it.  He runs his fingers through Martin’s hair.  It’s shorter now and the trimmed ends tickle against his palm.  There is something meditative and calming about the simple, repetitive motion.  It’s like stroking a sleeping cat, purring and warm in his lap.

Martin relaxes.  His fingers twitch against Arthur’s knee, squeezing little handfuls of his trouser leg.  His eyes are closed.  Arthur can see the delicate spread of his lashes against his cheek.  His lips part and a smile tugs at the corner of his mouth.  Arthur wants to slide down, curl up next to him, and gather him in.  He wants to feel arms around him and the warmth of Martin pressed close.  The image is sharp in his mind and all at once he wants it badly enough to make his throat ache.

“Arthur?”

“Hmm?”

“Everything all right?”

“Of course,” Arthur says. 

“It’s just that you went all tense.”

“Oh, sorry,” Arthur says.  “I’m a little tired.”

Martin pulls back.  Arthur nearly catches him around the shoulders to hold him in place, but stops himself in time.  “You were sleeping,” Martin says.  “I should have realised.  I’ll go.”

“No,” Arthur blurts out.  “Please stay.  I really want you to stay.”

Martin props himself up on one arm, half sitting on the bed, and looks at him.  “Are you sure you’re all right?  I have seen you look this frayed around the edges since St. Petersburg.” 

Arthur drops his gaze.  He can feel a threatening prickle at the back of his eyes and he blinks it away.  “Just a long flight,” he says.  “Hey, let’s try something new.  I think this will help.”

“Okay,” Martin says.  “What?”

Arthur undoes the buttons on his shirt.  Martin’s eyes go wide.  He opens his mouth, then shuts it again.  One hand tugs at his shirt cuff; the other twists the corner of the blanket up.  “It’s all right,” Arthur says.  “You keep your shirt; I’m just taking mine off.  We’re going to try the other way round.”

“The other way round what?”

“You touching me instead,” Arthur says.  “That way you get to be in charge and do whatever you like.  Explore a bit.”

“I… I’m not sure that’s… I’ll get it wrong.”

“No you won’t,” Arthur says.  “You can’t get it wrong.  There is no wrong.”  He slips out of the shirt and tosses it over the side of the bed.  Then he turns, wriggling down on his belly.  He folds his arms under the pillow.  Martin’s knee nudges against his waist and he can feel the little dip Martin makes in the mattress beside him.  It would be easy to roll into that dip and wrap around him but Arthur stays still. 

“Um, what do I… how do I start?”

“Start with one hand,” Arthur says.  “You can go anywhere from my belt up but be careful over my ribs.  I’m ticklish.”

There is a long pause.  Arthur waits, still and quiet.  Then, after a minute, a fingertip cautiously touches in the centre of his back, between his shoulder blades.  It traces his spine down to the inward curve at his waist.  Two fingertips press there and slide back up. 

“That’s good,” Arthur says softly.  “Whatever you like.”

Martin seems buoyed by the encouragement, because next his whole palm curls over the nape of Arthur’s neck.  He touches the hair, running it through his fingers.  He pets over Arthur’s head and along his shoulders.  He traces the curve of each shoulder blade, kneading at the tender skin beneath.  His knuckles press into the small of Arthur’s back.  Arthur makes a soft sound in his throat.

“Okay?” Martin asks.  “Did it hurt?”

“Feels brilliant,” Arthur says.  “Both hands now.”

Martin obeys.  His hands are broad, long-fingered and surprisingly strong.  His thumbs run up either side of Arthur’s spine, spreading tension away from the centre and kneading it out.  He rubs little circles over his shoulders and down to his tailbone.  It _does_ hurt, just a little, but it is like a good, long stretch after sitting through a flight.  The muscles tingle and thrum with feeling. 

“You’re really good,” Arthur murmurs.  His words are muffled by the pillow and slur together; he can’t keep his eyes open.  “Have you done this before?”

“No,” Martin says.  “It’s nice, though.”

“Mmm.”  Arthur rolls his shoulders and stretches his neck out.  Martin obligingly focuses there, stroking the soreness out of his shoulders.  He finds the tendons running up the back of his neck and works at them.  Arthur can feel the last of his headache dissipate and he sighs.  “Your turn next,” he says.  “Have you had massages before?”

“No, never.  They’re not free, and besides…”

“Strangers touching you, right,” Arthur says.  “I promise, you’ll like it.”

“I will if you’re doing it,” Martin says softly.

Arthur isn’t sure what to say to that, but a broad, daffy grin spreads across his face.  Martin makes his strokes lighter.  His hands run from Arthur’s shoulders to his waist in a steady, hypnotic rhythm.  Any minute now, Arthur is going to roll over, persuade Martin to part with his shirt, and do the same for him.  He really is.  He’s just got to rest his eyes for a little bit first.

He drops into sleep between one breath and the next, Martin’s hands still warm on his back.


	5. Morning

When Arthur wakes up, it’s slow.  He drifts somewhere along the tether between sleep and wakefulness, aware of the soft weight of the blanket on his shoulders and the pale morning sunlight coming through the window.  He’s not thinking of anything in particular, so when he notices he’s wearing socks and trousers but no shirt, it doesn’t carry any meaning.  It’s a bit odd, but he’s not awake enough to worry about it.

He stretches, relishing the faint crackle of his spine.  He can’t see a clock but it feels early; something about the quality of the light says dawn.  Nobody has come to fetch him, so he must not have to be anywhere.  He rolls into a lazy sprawl and wriggles his shoulders, rubbing them against the duvet.  He likes the texture of it on his skin and the dozy quiet and even the faint scent of curry that clings to the room.  He feels, for some reason, especially happy this morning.  Arthur doesn’t question this feeling; he just enjoys it.

He scratches idly at his belly with one hand.  His knuckles bump up against his belt.  He gives a curious sort of huff.  Belt, trousers, socks, but no shoes and no shirt… and now that he thinks of it, he’s not under the covers.  He’s lying on top of them, with one side rolled over him like a makeshift sleeping bag. 

Then he remembers all at once.  Martin, and the back rub, and he must have fallen asleep.  Martin had removed his shoes and covered him with the blanket and then slipped out. 

Before he can think it over, he’s on his feet and darting out the door, pausing only to tuck his room key into his pocket.  He knocks on Martin’s door, across the hall.  There is a maid in the hallway pushing a cleaning cart and it occurs to Arthur that he’s standing there bare-chested in stocking feet, but the lady doesn’t even blink.  She takes the cart in a little detour around him. 

Martin answers the door looking rumpled and sleepy, dressed in a white cotton tee and pyjama bottoms.  His hair is flat on one side and sticking up in corkscrew tufts on the other, and his jaw is scruffy with a layer of ginger stubble.  His bare toes look strangely vulnerable; Arthur has never seen him barefoot.  

“Arthur?”  Martin blinks at him.

“Morning Skip,” Arthur says.  “Can I come in?”

Martin nods, yawning, and steps back.  His room is identical to Arthur’s, which means it is tiny and has no furniture besides the bed and a small TV stand.  Martin looks around as if a chair will materialise, and when it doesn’t, he perches on the end of the bed.  The sheets are thrown back and Arthur thinks it looks warm and comfortable and perfect for crawling back into and having a long morning lie-in.  Perhaps with a bit of company.

“I’m sorry I fell asleep last night,” Arthur says.  “You didn’t get your turn.”

Martin waves this off.  “No, you were exhausted; I shouldn’t have come over in the first place.”

“I’m glad you did.”

“Are you?” Martin asks. 

“Of course,” Arthur says.  He frowns a little; Martin has a guarded, wary look on his face.  He sits beside Martin on the bed and takes his hand, running his thumb over the knuckles.  “What’s wrong?”

Martin flicks him a quick, furtive glance.  “Arthur, I know you love helping.  And you’re generous and selfless and you’re always trying to do nice things for people.  Even if maybe it’s not what you’d rather be doing.”

“Gosh, thanks!” Arthur says.  “What a nice thing to say.”

“Well, it’s true,” Martin replies.  “But it means people could take advantage of you.  They could use you for something they want or need even if it’s not what you want.”

Arthur tilts his head, trying to catch Martin’s eye, but the other man won’t look at him.  “I don’t understand.”

“I know,” Martin says.  “I just don’t want this to be… I mean, when you first offered, I didn’t realise I would…”

“Would what?”

“Like it so much,” Martin admits softly.  “And want so much more.  I’m afraid I’m taking something you don’t want to give.”

Arthur gapes at him; after a moment he closes his mouth with a snap.  He can’t put the right words together.  He wants to say that he’s delighted Martin wants more, that he wants more too, that he wants to give everything he can.  He is also terribly sorry he has somehow made Martin feel like the bad guy but he doesn’t know how to say it.  He wants to do something reassuring and clear and perfect but he’s just not clever enough— _Douglas_ could have said it right but the words gather into a cluster in his throat, jostling for space, and all that comes out is a thin whisper of air. 

Suddenly the only thing he can do is throw his arms around Martin and squeeze him, burying his face in the curve of Martin’s shoulder.  Martin goes whipcord tense in his arms and draws in a startled breath.  He makes no move to respond, his arms stiff at his sides. 

“Sorry,” Arthur says, pulling back fast.  “Sorry, sorry, I didn’t mean to…”

“No, it’s all right,” Martin says, talking over him.  “It’s fine, it is, I just wasn’t ready for…”

“Too soon, right, yes,” Arthur finishes.  He scoots away, giving Martin a comfortable buffer of space. 

“And you’re not wearing a shirt,” Martin explains.  “I mean, it’s kind of… intimate.  That’s all.”

Arthur nods.  “Yeah.  I just didn’t know how else to say it.”

Martin gives him a slow smile.  “So you’re okay with… more?”

“Yes,” Arthur says.  “Very okay.  Really, really okay.  More would be _brilliant.”_

Martin slides his hand across the bed.  Arthur covers it with his own.  Their fingers lace together.

“Okay, then,” Martin says.  He rubs the hem of his shirt between the fingers of his free hand.  “Do I, um… what’s next?”

“I’d like to repay the favour,” Arthur says.  “Would you let me?”

Martin nods, but hesitates.  Only a sliver of his belly is visible below his shirt, the pyjama bottoms riding low on his hips.  Arthur is careful not to stare. 

“It’s all right,” Arthur says quietly.  “Only my hands.  Would you feel better if you kept the shirt for now?”

“Yes,” Martin says.  “I’m sorry, it’s silly—”

“No it’s not,” Arthur says.  “I told you last night, whatever you like.”  He sits back and waits, hands folded in his lap, while Martin shoves the blankets aside and stretches out on his belly.  Then he kneels beside him on the bed; it would be easier to straddle him but he doesn’t want Martin to feel pinned. 

“Okay,” Martin says, after wriggling a bit.  “I’m ready.”

“Right,” Arthur says.  “Take a deep breath.  I want you to focus on that first.”  He places one hand in the small of Martin’s back, resting it there.  “Think about breathing down into your belly.  Make my hand lift up a little bit every time you inhale.”

“Yes, thank you Dr. Shappey,” Martin says with an amused huff.  He follows instructions though; his breathing grows deep and deliberate.  Arthur begins a steady stroke with his thumb.  Up with each breath in, back down on the way out.  He moves a little slower and Martin matches the pace.  The curve of his shoulders grows loose and his hands splay in limp curves on the bed at his sides.  His eyes are closed, his face relaxed, lips parted.

“Good,” Arthur says.  “You’re doing really well.”

“I can only hope that breathing will be the most challenging thing I’m asked to do today,” Martin mutters.  The words come out muffled; his face is half buried in the pillow.

Arthur starts moving his hand now, a slide up to the back of Martin’s neck.  He squeezes there and rubs little circles at the base of his skull.  He remembers how Martin gathers tension in that spot and works at it.  Martin makes a soft hum on each exhale; it is not quite a moan.  “Both hands,” he warns, and then rests them on Martin’s shoulders.

“Mmm,” Martin says.  His shoulders feel slim and wiry under Arthur’s palms; he is skin and muscle and bone with no layer of softness.

Arthur rubs from his neck out to the rounded curve of his shoulders and then down along the edge of each shoulder blade.  He lifts Martin’s arms and pulls at each one.  His hands overlap, drawing from shoulder to bicep to elbow.  He finds bare skin there, just past the material of his tee.  It is soft, especially on the inside of his elbow, and he lingers.  He draws patterns with the pads of his fingers and wonders how it would feel to kiss him there; if he’d be able to feel the pulse beneath his lips.

He can’t think about that too much though; he’ll get carried away.  He moves to the other arm instead.  Martin is half-melted into the bed, offering no resistance.  His arm is heavy in Arthur’s hands.  On this one, Arthur goes all the way out to the wrist, and then kneads with his thumbs in Martin’s palm.  The fingers curl upward in response to pressure.  Something about that open, empty hand looks plaintive and he resists the urge to bring it to his face and rub his cheek against the knuckles.

He goes back to the line of Martin’s spine, touching in long, firm strokes.  It’s difficult with the shirt in the way; the material catches on his hands and tugs into wrinkled clumps.  He dips down to Martin’s waist and then slides his fingertips beneath the hem.  Martin’s skin is very warm.

“Going to push it up just a little,” Arthur says.  “All right?”

“Okay,” Martin murmurs.       

The skin of his back is pale and freckled.  He has a pronounced waist, the inward curve visible beneath his ribs.  His spine makes a little valley in the centre of his back.  Arthur works his way up, pushing the shirt as he goes until it is rucked up beneath Martin’s arms. 

There is an abundance of new skin under his hands and he touches all of it.  He curves his fingers along the lines of Martin’s ribs and beneath, reaching to his belly.  He finds the sheath of muscle across Martin’s back and presses hard with his knuckles.  Martin makes a sound somewhere between pain and pleasure and the muscles grow lax.  He moves back down and, taking advantage of the low slung waistline, rubs little circles to either side of Martin’s tailbone. 

When he is certain the muscles cannot get any more relaxed, he switches to long, sweeping strokes.  He trails his fingertips in wide, lazy arcs.  His own back and shoulders are beginning to hurt from kneeling hunched over on the bed and he tilts sideways.  He winds up lying on his side, head propped in one hand, the other still resting on Martin’s back.

His strokes get slower.  The shirt rolls back down and his hand stays beneath it, fingers spread wide on the centre of Martin’s back.  He snags a spare pillow and tucks it under his head.  He closes his eyes.  If he shifted, he could sprawl against Martin’s side, an arm slung over his back and his cheek pressed against Martin’s shoulder.  He goes still.  He listens to Martin breathe and times his own to match.

“You going to fall asleep?” Martin asks.

“No,” Arthur says, but doesn’t open his eyes.

“Mmm,” Martin says.  “Me either.”

They are both wrong.


	6. Charleroi

They fly to Cairo a week later.  It is a cargo flight (Arthur is relieved, after the last passenger flight to Mumbai) and Mum has again opted out.  She doesn’t like Cairo; too much traffic.  She has been accompanying them on fewer and fewer flights and Arthur suspects it is so she can go out on dates with Herc while they are gone.  It is, apparently, the only way she can be sure Douglas doesn’t find out and tease her about it.

It is a smooth, quiet flight and everyone is in good spirits on the trip home.  Douglas is pleased with his acquisition of seventeen jars of dates.  Martin is humming because his landing the previous day was textbook perfect despite the heavy wind and blowing sand.  Arthur can’t stop thinking about the hotel, and the way Martin allowed him to spread sunblock over his back in the room before going down to the pool.

Egypt is conservative and Arthur was careful not to touch Martin in public while they were there, but just sitting beside him basking in the sun and chatting had been a treat.  Watching the sun gleam on his pale skin, flushed pink with heat, his fingers had tingled with the remembered sensation of touch.  Martin no longer hesitated when asked to remove his shirt, and indeed seemed to relish the backrubs and look forward to them.

Arthur glances up as Douglas walks past him.  “Hi, Douglas,” he says.  “Need anything?”

“Just stretching my legs,” Douglas replies.  He moves up the aisle, then grabs the seats to either side and twists.  His back makes a crackling sound and he gives a satisfied grunt.

“Oh, right,” Arthur says.  “Think you’ll be at it a while, then?”

Douglas raises an eyebrow.  Arthur watches; he’s never quite mastered the knack of raising just one of them.  “Some particular reason you’re so keen to keep tabs on my whereabouts?” Douglas asks.

“Not really,” Arthur says.  “I just thought if you’re going to be walking round for a while, I might go up and keep Martin company so he doesn’t get bored.”

“Ah,” Douglas says.  He somehow puts layers of meaning into the word.

Although he is sitting down, Arthur shuffles his feet.  He has the sudden idea that everything he’s been thinking about Martin is written on his forehead in neon.  When he risks a glance up, Douglas is watching him thoughtfully.

“Tell you what,” Douglas says.  “I think I’ll stretch out in the back row, have a cup of tea, and relax.  That takes at least twenty minutes if you’re doing it right.  Think that’ll be enough time?”

“For what?” Arthur squeaks.

“For you to… _keep Martin company._ ” 

Arthur ducks; he can feel his face flood with colour.  “I, um…”

“Do be careful not to crash the plane,” Douglas says, and saunters off.

Arthur splashes some water on his face in the galley before popping his head into the flight deck.  “Hi Skip,” he says.  “Mind if I join you?”

Martin turns and smiles at him over his shoulder.  He’s wearing his uniform, of course; seated in front of the intimidating array of dials and gauges he looks crisp and professional.  “Please do,” he says. 

Arthur slips into the co-pilot seat.  “So,” he starts.  “Brilliant landing in Cairo.”

He’s told Martin this at least three times already, but he’ll keep saying it as long as Martin keeps reacting with that startled grin and pink-cheeked happiness.  “Wasn’t bad, was it?”

“I barely felt it!” Arthur replies.  “I don’t know how you did it with all the sand everywhere and Gertie bouncing around but we touched down like a feather.”

“You’re exaggerating,” Martin says.

“Not at all,” Arthur insists.  “You’ve really, really gotten better.  You remember that landing in Douz?  This was a _lot_ better.”

“Yes, thank you.”  Martin’s face pulls into a wry, rueful smile.  “After three years, I suppose I’ve picked up a few things.” 

Arthur nods.  He leans forward, lifts his hand so Martin can see it coming, and then strokes it over the back of Martin’s neck.  The other man’s head drops forward automatically and his eyes go half-lidded.  Arthur threads his fingers through his hair and dips them beneath Martin’s collar; the gap between collar and throat is a warm, snug space he can just reach.

“Mmm,” Martin hums, and straightens.  “Careful.  We’re on auto-pilot but I’ve still got to pay attention.”

“Righto,” Arthur says.  He stands and gets behind Martin’s chair.  It’s got a high back and it’s awkward getting at Martin’s shoulders from this angle but he has a go at it anyway.  He rubs hard, digging into muscles left tense by five hours sitting in one position.  Martin groans low in his throat and sags forward. 

“Douglas is going to catch us,” Martin says.  Despite this, he doesn’t make any effort to pull away.

“No he won’t,” Arthur replies.  “He said he’d be back there for at least twenty minutes.”

“Okay.”  Martin leans back; his hair brushes Arthur’s chest.  His head lolls there.  His eyes are still open, focused on the instruments, but his breathing slows and his muscles loosen under Arthur’s hands.

After several minutes, Arthur lets his hands go still, resting on Martin’s shoulders.  “Going to move them down a bit,” he says.  “Just over your chest.  All right?”

“All right,” Martin agrees.  He’s still leaning back, his head a warm weight against Arthur’s sternum.  Arthur stretches his fingers out first.  The tips run over Martin’s collarbone, pronounced as a long, smooth line beneath his shirt.  Then he creeps downward, bumping over each of Martin’s ribs.  Like his back, his chest is wiry with muscle layered over bone. 

He reaches as far as he can, arms halfway down Martin’s chest, and he leans until he can rest his cheek against Martin’s hair.  It is almost a hug; the chair back is in the way but it’s the closest he’s gotten so far.  He takes a deep breath.  Martin’s hair is soft and smells of mint shampoo.  If he turns his head just a little, his lips will brush against the soft skin behind Martin’s ear. 

Martin brings up one hand and curls it around Arthur’s wrist, resting on his chest.  Arthur goes still; he keeps his grasp light, wondering if Martin is going to pull his arms away.  Martin doesn’t, though.  His thumb runs idly back and forth over the inside of Arthur’s wrist.  Arthur hopes he can’t feel his pulse speeding up.

He dares to hold on a little tighter.  He can feel Martin breathing and he closes his eyes.  He sinks down an inch at a time until his chin is resting on Martin’s shoulder and their heads nestle together.  Martin puts both his hands over top of Arthur’s and laces their fingers. 

Arthur turns and, very carefully, allows his lips to touch Martin’s cheek.  It is a bare whisper of contact but Martin catches his breath.  Arthur holds perfectly still.

There is a drawn moment in which nobody moves.  Martin swallows.  Arthur is close enough to see the bob of his throat and hear the dry clicking sound it makes. 

“Arthur,” Martin says quietly.  “Are you sure?”

“Yes,” Arthur says.  _“Yes._ ”

Martin turns.  They’re still close, noses almost brushing together.  Arthur can feel the warm tickle of Martin’s breathing washing over his own lips.

He doesn’t lean forward.  He doesn’t want to push, and besides, he has an idea of how he wants this to go.  He wants their first proper kiss to be—well— _proper._ Not stolen on the flight deck while awkwardly bent around the captain’s seat.  Not something furtive and hurried while worrying that Douglas will walk in any moment.  He wants to take his time with it.  It is something to be savoured.

So he gives one last squeeze, feeling the racing thrum of Martin’s heart thudding against his ribs, and then pulls back. 

“Later,” he says, “when we get back home, can I come over to your place for a bit?”

Martin nods.  His eyes are wide.

“Brilliant,” Arthur says.  He slips out of the flight deck.

He passes Douglas coming up the aisle.  He knows he’s got a huge, silly grin plastered on his face but he can’t make it stop.  Douglas claps him on the shoulder and gives him a broad wink.  He doesn't say anything; he doesn’t have to.

*

They’re over Belgium when it goes wrong.  Arthur isn’t sure what it is, but he knows the feel of the plane when they’re descending and he buckles into his seat.  They come down in an unfamiliar airfield.  The signs are in Dutch, French and German; he presses his nose to the window and watches for one in English. 

He’s still puzzled when they roll to a stop.  The engines power down with a low whirr and then there is silence, always a jolt after hours of white noise.  He walks up to the flight deck and looks in.  “Chaps?  This isn’t Fitton.”

“Yes Arthur, well spotted,” Douglas says.  “We’re in Belgium.  Charleroi, to be precise.”

“Oh,” Arthur says.  “Why?”

Douglas draws in a preparatory breath.  Martin cuts him off.  “Because we needed to divert,” he says.  “There was a mechanical issue.”

“There was a warning light,” Douglas says.  “Experience has taught us this is not always the same as an actual mechanical fault.”  He casts a pointed look at Martin.  “At least, experience has taught _some_ of us.”

“I don’t know why you’re complaining,” Martin says.  “You like Belgium.”

“I like Brussels,” Douglas replies.  “You may have noticed this is not Brussels.”

“Close enough.”

“Ah, yes,” Douglas says.  “Only thirty miles away.  I’ll just hitchhike, shall I?”

“Look, we won’t be here for long.  It’s a large airfield; they’re bound to have an engineer who can fix Gertie.”

“True,” Douglas says.  “And they’re also bound to have exorbitant engineer and landing fees.  There is a _reason_ we normally land in the tiny airfields, you know.”

“Of course I know that,” Martin replies.  “But this was the closest suitable place.  I’m not risking our safety just because it’s cheaper.”

“No, you’re just risking _your_ safety, because Carolyn is going to make mincemeat of you.”

Martin gives a rueful nod.  “I know.  I’ll tell her it was all my idea if you can get us to the front of the line with the engineer.”

“It _was_ all your idea,” Douglas says.  “But since I have no desire to spend the rest of the day in Charleroi, you’ve got a deal.”

“What should I do?” Arthur asks.

“Stay put.  Hopefully we’ll be taking off soon,” Martin says. 

“Righto.”  Arthur watches them cross the airfield and settles in to wait.

*

They do indeed take off soon; the engineer took very little time to fix the problem.  Arthur gathers (mostly from the thick aura of _I told you so_ emanating from Douglas) that there was not actually any problem.  Another dodgy warning light on an otherwise perfectly good aeroplane. 

It’s a quick hop from Charleroi to Fitton and he spends it in the cabin, avoiding the flight deck.  Douglas is tetchy because their delayed return means he’s missing some of his weekend with his daughter.  Martin is tense; apparently dreading the return and inevitable lecture. 

When they land, Arthur stays on Gertie to tidy and lock up.  Douglas vanishes, leaving the post-flight paperwork to Martin.  Before Martin leaves the plane, Arthur catches his hand and gives it a squeeze.  He offers an encouraging smile.  “It’ll be all right, Skip,” he says.  “Mum will understand.”

Martin breathes a short, disbelieving laugh.  “Right.”  But he squeezes back and gives Arthur a grateful look.  “Still on for later?”

“Definitely,” Arthur says. 

Martin nods.  “Okay,” he says.  “Wish me luck.”

“Good luck,” Arthur replies obediently. 

Martin trudges across the tarmac to the porta-cabin and disappears within.  Arthur gives it a while, lingering over cleaning Gertie up.  There’s really not much to do after a cargo flight but he has the feeling he should hang around.  He thinks when Mum is finished with Martin, he can be there to pick up the pieces.  Not that there will be actual pieces (not _literally,_ anyway) but still, he knows how Mum can be when she’s angry and he knows how Martin seems to take criticism to heart.

After twenty minutes, he runs out of ways to reorganize the snack-size packets of cashews and decides he’s waited long enough.  He locks up and approaches the office.  He can hear the raised tones of Mum’s voice first, and then the quieter, muffled responses from Martin.  By the time he gets to the door, he can make out the words.

“You cannot keep doing this Martin, you really can’t.”

“I can’t just ignore—”

“All I’m asking is for you to exercise a little common sense!  If you had really lost fuel pressure, you would’ve lost thrust soon after, wouldn’t you?”

“Yes,” Martin says.  “Which is why I had no choice but to—”

“And you didn’t lose the engine, did you?  It continued working perfectly fine for several minutes after the warning light went on.”

“Yes.”

“Tell me, would it have worked if it were not receiving fuel?”

Margin sighs.  “No.”

“So logically, what does that tell you?”

There is a pause.  Martin’s voice gets quieter; Arthur can’t understand all the words.  “…was nothing wrong with… but I had to determine… couldn’t risk it.”

“Martin.”  Mum’s voice goes steely.  “This is a command decision.  Any idiot can read a gauge and follow a checklist.  What makes a captain is the ability to think rationally under pressure.  That does not mean panicking and costing us thousands of pounds because of a little blinking light.”

Martin’s reply is so soft he can’t hear any of it.

“If you are going to continue being the captain at MJN,” Mum says, “I expect you to start acting like one.  Understood?”

There is only silence after that.  Arthur bursts through the door.  He finds Mum behind her desk and Martin in a chair on the other side, shoulders slumped, staring at the floor between his feet.  “Oh, hello,” he says.  “Didn’t know you were still in here.  Mum, Gertie’s all clean and locked up.”

“Yes, fine,” she says.  She looks tired; Arthur knows she worries about money rather a lot and he decides he will bring her something later to cheer her up.  Maybe some tea and chocolate biscuits later in the evening, when she’s calmer. 

In the meantime, though, there’s Martin, who is white-faced and small.  “Did you still need a ride home, Skip?” Arthur asks.

Martin blinks at him.  “What… oh.  Yes, I do.”

“Right,” Arthur says.  “All done here?”

Martin flicks a cautious, questioning look at Mum.  She nods. 

They hurry out of the porta-cabin before she can change her mind.  Martin moves with a hunched, plodding stride, hands stuffed in his pockets and head down.  Arthur tags along at his side.  He darts little curious, worried glances at Martin every few steps.

“I know you don’t really need a ride,” he says.

Martin nods.

“I only said that so she’d let you leave.”

“Right.  Thanks.”

“But I could go with you to your place,” Arthur says.

Martin hesitates.  “For what?”

“Whatever you like.”

There is quiet for a bit as they walk.  “I don’t know,” Martin says eventually.  “I’m not really feeling up for anything right now.”

“It would make you feel better,” Arthur promises.  “Hugs always make me feel better.”

“Is that what we’d be doing?”

Arthur opens his mouth, ready to say ‘ _if you want’_ but then he changes his mind.  Sometimes, he thinks, Martin needs to not be in charge.  “Yes.  That’s what we’re doing.”

“Oh,” Martin says.  A small smile curls at the corner of his mouth.  “Okay, then.”


	7. A Little More

It’s not a long drive from the airfield to Martin’s flat, but by the time they get there, Martin has clearly managed to work himself up into something.  His hands keep curling and then flattening at his sides and he’s chewing on his bottom lip.  Arthur isn’t sure if he’s nervous about what comes next, or still upset about the diversion in Charleroi.  Or both; knowing Martin, probably both.  When it comes to worrying, Martin is an overachiever.

He looks at his feet, scuffing in the gravel as they walk toward the front door.  His arms are held close to his sides, his shoulders tense and his steps measured.  Arthur doesn’t like the unhappy little lines radiating from the drawn down corners of Martin’s mouth, but he likes even less the way Martin is surrounded by a tangible barrier of empty air. 

They have, over the past few weeks, gotten accustomed to casual contact.  At least he thinks they have, and he thinks Martin wants it that way.  He has not failed to notice the way Martin closes his eyes and leans into contact when he knows it is coming.  It’s not just his imagination (or his wishful thinking) that Martin has grown to crave his touch, and want more of it. 

So this sudden distance is baffling.  He frowns and holds his tongue as they walk into the house.  There is a boy sitting on the sofa playing a video game; he glances up at them with disinterest as they pass by and goes back to his game.  In the kitchen, there is a girl with short cropped, spiky, pink-tipped hair making a cup of tea.  She nods at Martin.  Her eyes flick curiously over Arthur.

“Hi,” she says.

“Hi,” Arthur replies.  “Brilliant hair!  Like a hedgehog rolled in some paint.”

Martin makes a muffled sound, his hand over his face.  The girl grins broadly.  “Thanks!  Totally what I was going for.”  She raises an eyebrow at Martin.  “Hey flyboy.  Who’s your friend?”

“Arthur,” Martin says.  “Sorry, we were just going upstairs.”

“Oh, right,” she says.  She seems to have the same knack Douglas does for putting a lot of meaning into few words.  “Don’t let me keep you, then.”

Martin goes a kind of fuchsia colour (the same as the girl’s hair, now that Arthur thinks of it) and scurries toward the stairs.  Arthur glances over his shoulder in time to catch the wink the girl gives him.  This, he thinks, is his day for getting winked at.

In the attic, Arthur closes the door behind them.  It feels quiet up here, the air still and stuffy.  Martin has only been away for a couple days in Cairo but the flat already has a peculiar abandoned quality.  It also looks like he left in a hurry the last time.  A pair of pyjama bottoms are slung over the back of a chair and there is a used mug on the little card table.  The bed is unmade and rumpled.  A flight manual is spread open, face down, on one of the pillows.

“Sorry about the mess,” Martin says.  He opens the lone window; a cool breeze and the distant sound of traffic wash into the room.

“Martin,” Arthur says.

Martin stops.  His hands tangle in the hem of his shirt, fingers plucking anxiously at the fabric.  He has that look again, like a rabbit cornered by a snake.  Arthur holds his gaze as he moves closer; they wind up face to face.  Close enough to touch, but not touching.

“What’s wrong?” Arthur asks.

Martin shakes his head.  His mouth works, opening and closing, but he says nothing. 

“Okay,” Arthur says.  “I’m going to take your hands now.  Then I’m going to put you on the bed.  You’re going to lie on your side.  I’m going to face you.  That’s all for right now.  Okay?”

“Okay,” Martin says softly.  His hands are cold; Arthur rubs his thumbs over the backs, trying to warm them.  He pulls and Martin follows.  There is a bit of stumbling when they get to the bed but Arthur gives him a push and a few nudges.  Martin winds up lying stiffly on his side, facing the centre of the bed, arms wrapped tightly around his middle.  Arthur takes the other side and props his chin up in one hand. 

“There,” Arthur says.  “Give me one of your hands.  Just one hand, you’ve done that lots of times.”

Martin nods and unwraps one arm, gingerly extending his left hand.  Arthur strokes his palm.  He rests his cheek on a pillow and wraps both his hands around Martin’s one, squeezing gently.  He curls the fingers and then spreads them out, chafing them between his hands.  Martin watches all this; his eyes are keen and focused, his lips slightly parted.  Arthur can hear his breathing grow quiet and steady.

“Little better?” Arthur asks.

Martin blinks at him.  “Why are you doing this?”

Arthur pauses, then continues stroking.  “I like it.  I like _you._   I told you before.”

“But this is… it’s too much.  Too much work, _I’m_ too much work.  You shouldn’t have to go through all this just to give me something as simple as a hug!  A three year old can hug someone and I’m so _tired_ of being nervous about it all the time and always thinking about how much space is around me and wondering if I’m going to bump into someone.  And half the time I want to because it’s been so long since anyone touched me but then I think of how strange it will feel and I pull away and I don’t want to keep pulling away.  I don’t want to keep obsessing and worrying about it, I just want to relax and enjoy it but I _can’t_ and it’s not fair to expect you to fix it.  To fix _me_.  It’s not your fault.”

There is ringing silence after this outburst.  Martin swallows and stares at their linked hands; he’s blinking rapidly and biting his bottom lip.  Arthur holds on tight when Martin tries to pull away.  He thinks if he lets go now, he’s not getting that hand back.

“I’m going to tell you a little story,” Arthur says slowly.  He’s feeling his way along, not sure if this is the right way to go, but he’s got to do something to make Martin understand.  “And I promise there’s a reason and it will make sense if you listen all the way through, so let me tell it, okay?”

Martin looks confused, but nods.

“When I was a kid, my dad usually called me ‘useless’ like it was my nickname,” Arthur begins.  “I thought it _was_ my nickname, actually.  Like some kids were called ‘buddy’ or ‘tiger’ or something, and that was my nickname, and I thought that was okay.  I didn’t know what it really meant until I was nine.  I was at school and my teacher was writing on the board.  It was one of those white boards with the dry erase markers and her marker wasn’t working, it was just squeaking and leaving little scratchy marks instead of big fat lines the way it’s supposed to.  And she shook her head and put the marker down and muttered that it was useless.  That was when I understood that useless was a bad thing.”

Martin opens his mouth, and Arthur cuts him off with a shake of his head.  “Don’t,” he says.  “Let me tell it.”  He takes a deep breath and plunges ahead.  “So I decided I didn’t want to be useless.  I decided I would do things and help people.  I put the dishes away for Mum every night—but then she told me to stop because I kept putting them in the wrong places and I dropped three glasses because I couldn’t reach the cupboard without standing on a chair.  I brought my dad a drink after work, just like he liked to have it, but he didn’t like the one I brought him because I didn’t know how to mix it right.  He sort of choked and sputtered and told me not to touch his special bottles; that they weren’t for kids.”

Arthur pauses; this is an old story and it has a happy ending, actually, but the path to get there stings more than he thought it would.  “I kept trying though,” he says.  “It sort of got stuck in my head that if I could help one person, just one, then I wouldn’t be useless.  But it was silly old me, Arthur the clot, and I kept getting it wrong.  I walked the neighbour’s dog and lost hold of the leash and spent four hours trying to find the dog.  By the end the neighbour was worried their poor dog had been hit by a car and I was so scared we’d never find it, but we did, finally.  Mum helped me.  Dad asked me what I thought I was doing.  The neighbour never wanted me to walk her dog again.

“Then I tried bringing a treat for the teacher.  I thought you can’t go wrong with an apple, but she just kind of looked at it and then at me and her face got this awful sad expression.  She said, ‘Why would you do that, Arthur?  I thought you were a nice boy.’  And I didn’t get it.  But then I found out some of the kids had teased her about being heavy and kept leaving her fruit and vegetables and stuff and telling her to eat a salad.  She thought I was like them.”

“She didn’t know you at all,” Martin says.

Arthur glances up at him, surprised.

“Sorry,” Martin says.  “Didn’t mean to interrupt, I’ll let you tell it.  But she didn’t know a thing about you if she thought you could possibly be cruel.  It’s just not in you.”

“Thank you,” Arthur says.  “I tried a few other things.  I thought I’d wash the floors for Mum but I picked the wrong cleaner and wound up bleaching the rug.  Then I tried to make dinner and… well.  You remember Surprising Rice?  It was like that, but not as good.  I was getting pretty discouraged and thinking my dad was right; I really was useless.  And then I met Cam.”

Martin squeezes his hands and gives him an encouraging nod.  Arthur smiles at him.  He leans in and rubs his cheek against the back of Martin’s knuckles.  Those long, elegant hands are just as soft as he thought they’d be. 

“Cameron James,” Arthur says.  “He was new, transferred in halfway through the year.  Mum said we were like night and day, you couldn’t find two kids more different.  He was great at school, especially maths; so good they’d skipped him ahead a grade.  He liked sport but was no good at it, on account of being smaller than all the other kids.  He was really, really shy and never talked to people or raised his hand unless the teacher made him answer something.  He always knew the answer; he just didn’t want to speak out loud.”

“The first time I saw him was at lunch.  Some of the bigger kids had pushed him down and he’d dropped his lunch bag.  They stepped on it before they went away and he was just sitting there, trying to pick it up.  It was all kind of squished.  I’d kind of given up on finding someone to help at that point but I couldn’t just leave him like that with everyone laughing.  It’s no fun to be laughed at, I know.  So I went over and I helped him pick up the bits.  They were all ruined but I said I had extra and he could share my lunch if he wanted.”

“Very you,” Martin says.  “Kindhearted Arthur.”

“Yeah, I guess,” Arthur says, but he can’t help smiling.  “He didn’t want me to share, at first.  He thought I was going to be mean too.  He was so used to people being mean he didn’t want to talk to anyone at all, not even someone trying to help.  But you know me, I just kind of kept going and chattering at him until I wore him down.  Cam didn’t even have to try and talk; I did enough talking for both of us.  But he liked it, he told me.  He liked being able to sit with someone at lunch, and play with someone after school.  He even helped me with my homework.  I don’t think I would have ever understood fractions if he hadn’t been there.  He taught me to think of them as pies.  Everything is better with pies.”

Martin gives a soft laugh.  “Sounds like it.”

“Yeah,” Arthur says.  “But there was a time when he was teaching me maths and I was kind of frustrated and upset that I couldn’t get it.  I’m not smart; I know that, everyone knows that.  Not when it comes to things you learn out of a book.  He kept on trying, really patient and nice to me, even after the teacher had gotten tired of helping.  I asked him, the way you asked me—I asked him why he was doing this.  Why he wanted to help me when I was just useless.”

“Arthur…”  Martin scoots a little closer.  Their knees bump together; he doesn’t appear to notice.

“No, it’s okay, this is the good part,” Arthur says.  “Cam said, ‘you’re not useless, Arthur.  Why would you ever think that?  You’re my best friend.’  And it was just… I know I say everything is brilliant, but that really, _really_ was.  Because I had helped him and I didn’t even realise it.  I wasn’t trying to do something different, or even thinking about trying not to be useless when I started talking to him.  I just did it because he looked sad and I couldn’t…”

“You couldn’t turn your back,” Martin says.  “It’s not in your nature.”

“Right!” Arthur says.  “Yes, exactly, in my nature.  I was only doing what was in my nature; I didn’t have to try hard or think about it or do anything I didn’t want to do.  I was being _me_ and that helped him.  It meant I didn’t have to do anything different or try to change into another person.  I could just be Arthur, and that’s not useless.”

“No, it really isn’t,” Martin says. 

Arthur gives him a shy smile.  “Do you understand now?  I’m not sure I said it right.”

“I think I do,” Martin replies.  “You’re doing this for me partly because it’s who you are, and partly because it makes you feel good, helping someone.”

“Not just someone,” Arthur says.  “You are not just someone.”

“Oh,” Martin says.  His eyes are wide and liquid green in the slanting evening light. 

Arthur brings one hand up to the back of Martin’s neck, threading through the soft hair.  “Do you believe me?”

“I’m starting to.”  Martin turns his head so his cheek brushes against Arthur’s wrist.  He closes his eyes and leans into Arthur’s palm.

“Good,” Arthur says.  He strokes the ball of his thumb over Martin’s cheekbone.  “Can you tell me why you were upset before?”

Martin lifts one shoulder in a half shrug.  His eyes are still closed.  He moves with Arthur’s hand like a cat that wants to be petted.  “After everything today… you on the flight deck and then the diversion and Douglas telling me to stop letting my pride overcome my ability to be a good pilot and then Carolyn yelling at me I just… I don’t know.  I got a little overwhelmed.  What I wanted—what I really, _really_ wanted—was to take you up on your offer because it always makes me feel better, Arthur, it really does.  I don’t know if you can tell but it’s amazing how good it feels.” 

He stops and darts a wary glance at Arthur from under his eyelashes, perhaps waiting to be teased for admitting so much.  Arthur says nothing.  He offers Martin an encouraging nod.

“So, anyway,” Martin continues, “at first I was glad I had that to look forward to, but then I started worrying about it, and wondering if I was going to do it wrong, or be all stiff and awkward, or too nervous, and what else you might want to do.  And then I was frustrated and impatient with myself for getting so worked up over such a simple thing.  It shouldn’t be so hard and it _isn’t_ , that’s the thing, it isn’t hard at all.  I’ve got it built up in my head but in reality every time has been…”

“Brilliant,” Arthur says softly.

Martin brushes a very faint kiss against the inside of his wrist.  “Yes,” he says.

Arthur moves closer.  He can feel the warmth that Martin radiates seeping through the thin material of his shirt.  Their knees jostle companionably and he slings an arm around Martin’s waist, tugging him in.  Martin’s abdomen is firm and slim against Arthur’s own softer centre.  He can feel the curve of Martin’s ribs against his chest.  His other hand curls along the line of Martin’s jaw.  The bone is impossibly fragile in his palm.  “I’m going to kiss you now,” he says.

Martin is already nodding.  “Yes,” he says.  “Please.”

Arthur has always thought that Martin has a lovely mouth.  He starts at his favourite part, right at the dip in the centre of his upper lip.  The bow shape is pronounced; a lush, soft curve that trembles slightly when he touches his own lips against it.  He lingers there, pressing quick, light kisses.  He wanders out to one corner of Martin’s mouth, and then across to the other, nibbling gently on his bottom lip along the way. 

One of Martin’s hands comes up to rest in his hair.  Long fingers stroke the back of his neck; he can feel the pressure of Martin’s thumb at the hinge of his jaw.  He makes an encouraging sound and Martin holds on a little tighter. 

He keeps the kisses soft and teasing until Martin’s lips part under his in a sigh.  Then he runs the tip of his tongue along that intoxicating curve.  Martin shivers and wriggles a little closer.  He is a quivering live wire under Arthur’s arm, thrumming with something that is half nerves and half anticipation.  His mouth is warm and he breathes in little sips of air, unwilling to pull away long enough for a deep breath.

Arthur loses the thread of his slow, careful progression.  He nuzzles the line of Martin’s jaw and kisses his throat, sucking hard enough to leave a livid purplish mark on the fair skin.  Martin shudders and twists but makes no attempt to stop him.  He kisses Arthur back, daring a nibble to his lip and a brief dart of his tongue.  They kiss until they are breathing hard and Arthur’s head is spinning and the last vestiges of daylight fade.  The room grows dim, lit only by an oblique glow from the streetlight.

When he finally pulls back, Martin’s face is more of a silhouette.  A sketch in long, slender lines; his eyes are a faint reflective gleam.  His lips are slick and part easily when Arthur leans in.  He’s got one arm wrapped around Arthur’s back and the other mussing his hair, stroking and keeping him close.

“Wow,” Arthur murmurs.

He can see Martin’s grin in the way his eyes tilt up.  “Yes,” he says, sounding dazed.  “Are you… should I…”

“Time for hugging now,” Arthur says. 

Martin gives a surprised blink.  “You don’t want… more?”

“I do,” Arthur promises him.  “But there’s no rush.  We’ve got loads of time.”

“Okay,” Martin says, and lets out a long breath.  He sags toward Arthur.  He is pliant and easy to move; Arthur gathers him up.  He is light—almost worryingly so—and feels like a bundle of new green saplings.  Slim but bendable and deceptively tough.  Arthur interlaces their legs (careful not to nudge his thigh too high) and gets his arms around Martin’s back.  Martin puts his own arms around Arthur without being told.  He rests his head in the crook of Arthur’s shoulder, pressing his face against his shirt. 

Arthur can feel the thump of Martin’s heart where their chests press together; fast, but no longer the rabbit-quick racing he felt while they were kissing.  He sighs contentedly and scrubs his knuckles up and down Martin’s back.  He closes his eyes and presses a kiss to Martin’s temple. 

Martin squeezes him, wriggling closer.  He makes a sleepy murmur.  One hand trails idly along the gap between the back of Arthur’s shirt and the waistband of his trousers; the shirt has ridden up and left a band of bare skin there.  Martin’s fingertips draw lazy trails over that skin and a prickle of gooseflesh rises on Arthur’s back.

“Good?” Arthur asks.  “Not too much?”

“Good,” Martin replies.  His voice is muffled, cheek still pressed against Arthur’s shoulder.  He takes a deep breath.  “You were right before.”

“I was?  About what?”

 “Hugs,” Martin says, “are _brilliant.”_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Now with lovely art by Iyori! See it here: http://iyori.tumblr.com/post/31646663298


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